Wrong Note
by sonofasnitch
Summary: Music!AU In which Adrien is a boy with a piano and too-large expectations resting on his shoulders and Marinette is a girl with a violin and an easily flammable temper. [Now cross-posted on Archive of Our Own.]
1. Chapter One: Violin Strings

**Note:** I don't know how to write Author's Notes but I'mma try my best here.

Where this story came from is a mystery, although I think binge-watching every episode of Your Lie in April (again) was a huge contributor to this behemoth of a fic. It takes slow burn to a whole new different ball game. Honestly.

Also I wanted a music!fic and I couldn't find any. Vanity and self-indulgence fueled my want to write these mushrooms into cutesy and angsty situations with classical music backdrops. You're welcome. In any case, this story will feature a _lot_ of inaccuracies because this girl doesn't know jack about music competitions. I did with what I could? And by that I made do with what Google had to offer.

Oh, and before I forget- **Disclaimer: _I do not own Miraculous Ladybug or any of the characters._**

Reviews make the world go 'round! And keep the plumbing intact!

* * *

 **Chapter One: Violin Strings**

Off-key, he thought. He watched and listened more intently. The fingers were in the wrong places. Yes, definitely off-key. He gripped his pencil more firmly and wrote a deduction.

He rested his elbow on the arm rest and put his chin in his hand. _Shame, and he started off so well._ The boy in question was struggling, trying to find the correct pitch once more. Out of the corner of his eye, Adrien saw his father shake his head. Only slightly. Can't show any outward reaction, it might distract the performers. Adrien pursed his lips.

When the boy finished, he clapped politely, sinking back into his posture when he left the stage. Adrien looked at the pad at his lap, searched for a name. _Lucius Belgrade_. Poor Lucius, he thought wryly. His father was making some comment to the other judges, who drank in his opinion like it was the gospel of the Holy Lord, and Adrien wasn't really up for any questions that might be aimed at him so he stayed silent.

"What do you think, son?" Shit. He spoke too soon.

He shrugged nonchalantly. "Could've done better, it was in A instead of C, and he lost pace a third in." His voice was bored, clipped, and direct. The voice his father preferred in these situations. Gabriel Agreste nodded, almost in approval, and fixed himself to look at the stage again.

Adrien released a sigh through his nose.

A new number was put on the stand, and the next person came on. Another boy, and Adrien flipped to the next page. _Claude Jusein_. Claude bowed, set his violin to his chin, and played.

Ah. Adrien felt a fond rush of familiarity. Sarasate's Carmen Fantasy, op. 25.

He was good, Adrien had to say. No major mistakes, largely faithful to the score, and with a dramatic flair that hinted at great virtuosic potential. He relayed these statements to his father, who nodded quietly and made note of it. Adrien wrote down the score and flipped to the next contestant.

The picture displayed a girl, for a change. _Marinette Dupein-Cheng_. Adrien stared at the image for a moment, trying to decide whether or not the girl was familiar. Her eyes, big and blue, stared out of the page, and her tiny mouth was quirked into the most imperceptible smile. What latched on to him was that she wore her black hair in pigtails, held together by red ribbons. Didn't he know a girl who wore her hair like that?

"Adrien," he heard his father say, and he was jolted out of whatever reverie he was in. Gabriel's face was stern, and Adrien understood. He faced the stage, put his chin back in his palm to get his father off his back. The girl appeared, clad in red. Her hair was kept up in a bun instead of twin-tails. Adrien felt oddly disappointed. She bowed, raised her violin. Then she hit the first note.

A chill went down his spine. _Paganini Caprice no. 24 in A minor_. A good choice, Adrien thought, but such a dangerous one too.

The girl, Marinette, seemed to have no issue with the piece; she played with tense-less shoulders and calm fingers. Everything was fluid in her movement. She made the piece follow her, instead of following the piece. It flowed through her.

Adrien raptly paid attention to her, almost waiting for a moment for her to cough up, to break the spell, but she never slipped, not even once. Her ferocity peaked near the last few bars, playing so earnestly that Adrien saw a few of the hairs on her bow fray and catch light as they fluttered helplessly with each pull and drag.

The hall was completely silent in a new way. The atmosphere was wound up tight and taut, like it was hanging onto every sound that that girl made. The audience was at the edge of their seat. A teenage girl had them all breathless.

And then it was over. Marinette Dupein-Cheng bowed low, breathing so heavily that Adrien could see her shoulder blades moving in effort. The crowd was silent, as if shocked still, but recovered to give her the loudest response given yet. She smiled—she had a very pretty smile—and walked off the stage.

His father was nodding like something had pleased him immensely. "Great talent, good emotion, precision, near-perfect accuracy." he said, counting it off on his long fingers. "She's the best one yet."

Adrien hummed quietly in agreement. "She's perfect," he said, more to himself than anyone else. She was probably the only one whom he gave a perfect score.

* * *

Marinette was shaking. She nearly lost her grip on her violin as she walked backstage. The nerves always hit her directly afterwards. Convenient, but the waves of nausea weren't really appreciated. She pushed the heavy door open, a stage hand rushing to help her, but she waved him off with a grimace-y smile and did it herself. Heaving, she leaned against the wall next to the door and put a hand over her eyes. Her fingers were slightly sore.

She heard footsteps, at first coming from far away, but as they got nearer they got more thunderous and hurried. Marinette straightened, let her hand fall back at her side, narrowing her eyes into the darkened hallway. The steps only grew louder.

"You!" Alya appeared quite literally out of nowhere, a finger outstretched in what Marinette felt was accusation. Her best friend took a big, gasping breath, and walked a few steps before nearly collapsing entirely.

"Alya!" Marinette rushed to her side, helping the redhead get up.

"You," Alya repeated as she caught her breath. "You,"

"Yes, me," the girl in red said, chuckling humorously. "Anything else Al? Enlighten me with your words."

Her smart remark earned her a hot glare. Marinette tucked in a smile.

"You dickhead, before your mouth got away with you I was just about to say how amazing your performance was." Alya said, gulping down enough air finally. Marinette smiled softly at the girl and took her in a hug.

"Thank you," she said, grateful. She felt Alya smile.

"Of course."

They went to the changing rooms like that, arms thrown over each other's shoulders.

By the time Marinette was out of her dress and was in the main hall, the results were already posted. She was quite terrified to go over there herself but Alya had grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her to the bulletin, knocking about some people to which Marinette profusely apologized. They rag-dolled themselves to the front, and Marinette peered up the list with anxious anticipation. Alya ran a finger over the list a few times, and stopped. Marinette's eyes followed Alya's finger.

 **6\. Dupein-Cheng, Marinette  
**

She felt herself breathe. Alya sighed in relief and laughed, slapping a hand on Marinette's shoulder. Marinette didn't even feel it, she was too happy.

"Girl, you fucking did it!" Alya then threw her arms around her. Marinette, who wasn't expecting it, nearly fell but caught herself. She laughed, a little dubious, and hugged her friend back.

"Come on," Marinette said as they pulled away. "I'm treating you to lunch."

Alya then pumped her fist in the air and Marinette pulled them out of the crowd and out of the place altogether.


	2. Chapter Two: Pigtails and Bambi Eyes

**Note:** Hello there. I was actually planning to publish this, well, _not so soon,_ but I didn't go to school today and I was bored so what the hell.

I practically tore through this thing without editing because apparently my brain likes to be conscious at three A.M. Now I am at the perfect liberty to edit but I am sick with the flu and ugh. So sorry for any mistakes. Also quite sure that I hit you over the head with the Chopin piece that inspired the title of this thing somewhere. Not sorry for that one, though.

More Adrien-centric, which can be said for the rest of this fic, because I love the guy and I think he needs some attention. Marinette gets a pretty long part at the end there though.

 **Disclaimer: _I do not own Miraculous Ladybug or any of the characters._**

Reviews are affordable Hamilton tickets!

* * *

 **Chapter Two: Pigtails and Bambi Eyes**

"So, how was it?" Nino asked, blowing a few measly bubbles into existence. Adrien watched them float aimlessly for three seconds before they popped.

Adrien shrugged. "The usual. Father making me join these judging committees when he knows I have no interest in them."

"Maybe it's because he wants to spend more time with you," Nino said hopefully, but Adrien knew better. And, really, Nino knew better too.

"He doesn't even talk to me during the performances. He asks me of my opinions, scolds me maybe, if I was lucky. That's it." He sighed dejectedly and fell back against the back of the chair. They were in his room, Nathalie having given Adrien permission to let Nino up. He had piano lessons in about an hour, so he took whatever time he could get to relax.

His eyes flitted restlessly about his room, at his posters, at his scattered clothes. He really should clean that up before Nathalie sees it. He saw the red scarf he had bought on a whim years ago, and suddenly remembers something.

"Hey Nino?" he asked, sitting up straighter. His best friend stopped blowing bubbles for a moment to look at him.

"Yeah?"

"Do you know a Marinette Cheng?" He could swear he's seen her somewhere before. He's just not sure where.

"Yeah, I know of one in particular. Why?"

At this, he snapped up to his best posture. "She was a contestant at the competition. One of the best, too. She just seemed familiar when she went on so I had to ask."

Nino looked contemplative for a minute. "Pigtails with Bambi eyes?" he asked. Adrien nodded.

"Ah. Yes, we went to school with her. Before she got hand selected to go someplace to get trained professionally. So I take it she still plays?"

"Yes, she does. And she was magnificent."

Nino smiled, nostalgic. "She always brought her violin around then, remember?"

Adrien was having a much clearer vision of the young Marinette, ambling around their old school's campus with a large case in her hands.

"Yeah. I thought it was just funny, seeing her there but she didn't see me."

"Well, she'd probably say hello if she did see you. Marinette was nice like that."

Adrien would bet she was.

* * *

Piano was something he inherited. His father was an extremely talented and world renowned pianist, with every award from any international competition sitting somewhere on a shelf. Adrien's house was scattered with those trophies, you could see at least three down each hallway, and four in almost every room. Every room except his, because his father felt it imprudent.

His mother, before she left, was a multi-instrumentalist who specialized in the violin. She had her own achievements, but his father's had always eclipsed any victory she had. Adrien often wondered if that was the reason why she had left. She had definitely once loved Adrien's father, but something had driven that out and replaced it with resentment. Or something else strong enough to make her abandon him in the house that now felt too empty.

He first learned how to play when his father found him perched on the upright piano they kept in the attic, when it wasn't an attic but rather a music room of sorts, pushing keys. His father said later, in rare moments of nostalgia, that Adrien would sit and look at the keyboard, his tiny face screwed up in the deepest contemplation, and he would press a tiny finger onto a key, listen intently to the sound, and choose the next note with the highest amount of consideration. Gabriel was astounded, and sent for tutors at once, only the finest in the country for his young boy.

There were days when his father taught him himself. Back then, when he was just getting the hang of things, Gabriel would give him pointers and tips in that detached and somewhat cold way he did. Adrien would hang onto every word, carefully following his father's instructions, scared to make any error.

He was honed to complete perfection. He practiced a total of 110 hours a week when he was still being homeschooled but once he started public school it toned down to an 80. He could play just about anything by now, from Liszt to Bach to Tchaikovsky, and even the casual novelty song. Although he doesn't let his father know about those ones.

Today he sits at the piano with a goal in mind. He wanted to feel that feeling again, of that complete annihilation of the self and then that rebirth. A piece is a piece but a good piece would always ask, "Who are you, in all this?" and Adrien would have to find the answer. He couldn't help but think of the girl, Marinette, as he looked for sheet music. Her emotion, and the clarity of which it was delivered, her music flying off like runaway doves, fleeting yet resonating. He desired for that effect.

He thumbed at a few options, looking through them all one by one. He wasn't really all for Beethoven at the moment; Mozart was a bit trivial; going for Bach would be too obvious for him; Chopin? All right then, Chopin. He picked one at random, looked at the title. _Etude op. 25, no. 5 in E minor, "Wrong Note"_.

All right then.

He sat down, set the sheet music in the stand and turned it to the proper page. He poised his hands over the keys, snuck a look at the notes, and then played.

Adrien had magic moments, sometimes, when he really felt the piece. Or, to be clear, when he _chose_ the piece he got to play. There was always had to be an image when you play, and you had to be brave enough to show it. He knew the score well enough to close his eyes and let the heat flow from him; pour from his fingers that gentle warmth and ease, and caress the ears of a listener.

The piece was an odd one, he must say. Chopin made it so, and he knew that, but it did not make it any less weird. There were moments of barely restrained frustration, maybe even restlessness, but then there were moments of great tranquility. _There_ , he thought softly as a vision came to him, ethereal and serene.

A girl, black hair pulled into two sections, the tied portions resting on her shoulders. She wore a red dress, knee-length with a skirt that stuck out. Her smile was small, just a tiny quirk, as she walked toward him, her low-heeled shoes clacking against the hardwood floor. The air was warm, and it smelled softly of pastries, the kind that his mother used to make, and the girl had brought flowers with her, roses.

She reached him at last, her closed eyes opening and Adrien saw the clearest, deepest blue he'd ever seen. Her smile remained small, but Adrien saw that the skies in her eyes were wide open and he didn't care much for the lack of her response. She left the flowers on the lid of the piano, moving closer to him.

Then the image changed, as the notes rose in tempo, she began twirling and spinning around him, but as the sound began its descent, she did too, and then she was sitting next to him.

He opened his eyes. There was no girl. He looked to the lid of the piano and there were no flowers. He sighed, a melancholy filling him up.

It was only then that he realized that someone was knocking on the door.

"Come in,"

It was Nathalie. "Adrien, you have French in half an hour. Get cleaned up."

He nodded, and went to do so.

* * *

"You need accompaniment for the next stage," Alya said, reading from the letter that listed all of her requirements.

Marinette slumped slightly at the news. "Ah," she mumbled, casting a forlorn look at her knees. "Right."

Alya raised a red eyebrow. "What's with the 'Ah,' and the 'Right,'?" she asked, leaning forward to poke Marinette on the knee.

Marinette scratched the back of her neck sheepishly. "Nath sort of… _backedoutonmeovertheweekend._ "

Slowly, ever so slowly, Alya turned her head to look straight at Marinette. Her mouth quirked into vague shapes, as if trying to form words, but nothing came out.

"Nathanael," Alya said finally, working through the syllables slowly, "backed out on you at the last minute?" Marinette nodded and Alya's expression hardened. "Now why on earth would he do that?"

"He had this art thing?" Marinette said, though it came out more like a question. "In Roubaix? And I couldn't deny him that so I let him go."

Alya's left eye twitched. Marinette drew breath.

"You—"

"I know,"

"You're too—"

"I know,"

"Ugh. Marinette."

"I know,"

A moment of silence passed. Alya was the one to break it.

"You're still going to need accompaniment."

Marinette sighed. She knew at least thirty other pianists, three-fifths of them from her school alone, but she knew they couldn't play with her. With competition season effectively in motion, they were all packed up to the end of their schedules. Besides, they were all soloists anyway.

Nathanael was perfect because he was trained for accompaniment. She could brush aside the pretty obvious fact that he went along with everything she said because he had a gigantic crush on her because he was fantastic at his job. But, as much as he liked music (and Marinette, which Alya would pointedly add at this point), he loved the arts more. And Marinette let him go, because who was she to stand in the way?

"Do you know anyone who isn't completely booked this season?" Alya asked, scrolling through her phone, probably looking for names.

"I've called everyone I know since Nath called to cancel. They're all busy."

"Damn. I still can't get over the fact that the tomato jumped ship— _your_ ship—to look at dead people's drawings."

"Alya don't be like that. It's what he wanted, and—"

"Who were you to stand in his way, I get it. But that doesn't change the fact that we are one man short."

Marinette exhaled loudly, pushed her fingers into the material of her jeans. She needed to think.

"Wait." Alya said suddenly. Marinette looked up from her lap. "No that's crazy," the redhead dismissed.

"What?" Marinette asked.

"Nothing. It's a bullshit idea."

" _What_?" Marinette got up to sit next to Alya, as if trying to get into her head through proximity. Maybe she _was_ trying.

" _Nothing_ ," Alya said, pushing Marinette away.

" _Alya_ ,"

"Fine," the girl conceded, and Marinette scooted closer. "Remember Adrien Agreste?"

"The son of the man who's practically running the entire competition? Yes I think I've heard of him."

"No sass, woman," Alya glared. "He plays the piano right?"

"Yeah, I think? Why—no. Alya, no."

"See! I told you it was a bad idea!" Alya said, waving frantically.

Marinette shook her head. Of course it was a bad idea! She couldn't even think about _considering_ it. She could find other people. Adrien Agreste was off-grounds. His dad _owned_ the committee, and the prize was his sponsorship. It's all she'd ever wanted, and she was going to get it by her own terms, and not by any kind of nepotism that Gabriel might display in the face of competition.

She'll find someone else. Anyone else.

"But you have to admit," Alya said, "that's a pretty good backup plan."

Marinette hit her over the head with a pillow.


	3. Chapter Three: Beginnings

**Note:** I'm back! Hooray! Okay so this thing got more than a few delays, chief among them exams, because my school thought it perfectly sensible and appropriate to schedule six exams (that will determine, like, 25% percent of my grade) in one day. Also, writer's block. A hell of a block. Not even a block. Like, a writer's wall. Something, I don't know.

This is probably the shortest chapter yet. Yikes.

I also didn't edit this. Hah. What's new amirite?

I don't feel good about this chapter, like at all. But I wanted to give Mari her own chapter, and I came up with this. As you will see, my Marinette differs quite a bit from the Mari in the show. I have my reasons! Firstly, I aged them up. All of them are pretty much in their late teens in this fic, and even though everyone is around fourteen or fifteen in the original show, a LOT of growth takes place in those three or so years that I've added to their ages. Secondly, I wanted to play around with a Marinette that didn't have the Miraculous. I take that into consideration in regards to Adrien as well, which you'll see come to play in future chapters.

All right, I've rambled your ear off quite enough now. xx

 **Disclaimer: _I do not own Miraculous Ladybug or any of the characters._**

Reviews are eight-plus hours of uninterrupted sleep!

* * *

 **Chapter Three: Beginnings**

The first time she picked up a violin, she was five, and she had dropped it almost immediately. (She was a tiny thing—and, infuriatingly, she still was quite small—and the thing was heavier than her little body could handle.) It was her mother's, an artifact of her university days. Anyway, when Marinette first held a violin, she wasn't particularly enthralled by it. She thought it, at best, pretty and, at worst, dull and heavy. How things had changed.

She remembered how her mother had heard the noise from the other room and rushed to check in on her, only to find the instrument of her youth lying, still blissfully intact, on the floor. Her mother sighed, smiling, and picked it up from the floor.

"Mari," she had said, dusting it off with her hand, "where did you get this?"

Marinette was an honest child, and it was a tried and tested fact that she was fallible in areas of deceit. She could not lie to save her ass. So, she pointed in the direction of her parents' room.

"Found it in the closet," she said, timid. She was worried that she might have made her mother mad. The case was open, spread out on their coffee table. The bow was still in it.

Marinette had expected a scolding, but instead her mother looked down at her with a gentle look.

"This was maman's," her mother had said, holding the instrument by the neck and swinging it so that the chinrest faced the bottom half of her face. She set it down on the couch to retrieve the bow, also grabbing a cake of rosin and passing it along the hairs. She picked up the violin again, the bow held high, and she played.

Marinette was blown away.

Her mother, in spite of the jumpy, rusty, and frumpy way she had played that day, was a phenomenon Marinette hadn't witnessed until that point. Fireworks exploded in her brain at the music, at the instrument that made it, at her mother who had provided the spark. The violin a foreigner, and her mother the translator. Marinette remembered the intense desire to get to know this foreigner, to know the language better than the back of her hand, to speak its tongue and best it.

She clapped enthusiastically when her mother finished, tugging at her skirt to try and get her to teach Marinette the basics. As it turned out, her mother didn't even remember the basics all too clearly. She only managed through that one piece because her father had said that it was his favorite.

And from then on Marinette vowed to learn.

Her parents were encouraging, getting her private lessons and buying her a new violin that wasn't so heavy. Marinette learned with zeal, practicing for hours on end and studying pieces top to bottom. She played and played and played until her fingers would stiff up from pain and, sometimes, until they bled. She got into one of the best music schools in Paris because of her diligence, and to say she was proud of her achievements was an understatement.

Music was her passion, her one true love. It was that love that drove her into this competition. She wanted something that could sustain her, something that could keep her falling in love every single time she went to go to work. Gabriel Agreste's sponsorship could make that possible.

But it seemed that the closer she got to that dream, the more it kicked her down like some stubborn horse. With every denied call, accompanied by some apologetic explanation of how they couldn't play with her, she could feel the ambition slipping through her fingers like sand, or too much water.

"Baby?" she heard her father call, stopping her playing abruptly.

"Yeah dad?"

"Have you eaten at all today?"

She paused for a second too long. "I had some eggs this morning," It wasn't a total lie. She had a bite of the omelette her mother had cooked for breakfast, and maybe half a cup of water. Those were minor details anyway.

She could actually _feel_ and _see_ her father's displeasure radiating in her direction. Marinette could get a bit fanatical when left to her own devices, and her parents knew this only too well. The trapdoor to her room flipped open, revealing her father carrying a tray of fresh pastries. For the first time in some hours she set down the violin to help her dad up. Grabbing the tray, she placed it on a vacant desk and lent her assistance to her dad, who was getting a bit too wide to fit through the door.

"Why'd we give you the room all the way up here anyway?" he said when he got to his feet. Marinette laughed, going to sit on her bed. She knew why her dad was here.

And it seemed that he knew that she knew, for he followed suit and took a seat on her mattress. They both grabbed a pastry, ate in silence for a while.

Her father was the one to break it. "You've been at it a while," he said.

Marinette nodded, swallowed, and then took a bigger bite. She hadn't realized how hungry she actually was.

"Shouldn't you take a break or something?"

Marinette wanted to answer, but the bread was warm and soft and perfectly delectable, so she refrained in favor of another bite.

"Don't think I don't know why you've been locked up here for the past week," her father said matter-of-factly. "Nath left and you don't have an accompanist, right?"

She had busied herself with her second pastry, so she only nodded.

"And, pray tell, how is working yourself to death going to get you a replacement pianist?"

Marinette chased her food down with the juice her father brought along. "I'm just practicing," she said, as flippantly as she could.

Her dad didn't buy it. "Yeah that wasn't _just_ practicing, Mari. That was brooding. You always play Beethoven when you're brooding."

The observation startled a laugh out of her. _She_ knew that she had a preference Beethoven whenever she found herself in a dark mood. She just didn't expect her _dad_ to know about it. But then again, her father could be surprisingly perceptive. Even when she'd lived with him for so long his moments of sudden clarity were astonishing in their suddenness.

She was at a loss for what to say. "I…" Her father's raised eyebrows urged her on. "I guess I needed some time to think. Or maybe _not_ think—I've been doing too much thinking lately." She waved her hands around emphatically, nearly hitting her dad in the process. "I needed to not think."

Her dad scratched the back of his neck, nodding in understanding. "That's how I feel about frosting, quite honestly." Marinette laughed again, rubbing a hand under her eyes. She'd been crying without realizing.

"Hey," her dad said, pulling her to him, and Marinette felt slightly better like that, squished against her dad's large chest, smelling the bakery on him. "You'll find someone, all right?" She nodded, spreading tears all over his shirt. "I'll even ask your mother to call up some old college friends and see who she can dredge up. I'd love to pitch in baby, but I know no one besides you and your mother who can play."

Marinette laughed wetly, pushing her face further into her dad's shirt. "Thank you," she said, her voice coming out as a gurgle.

"No problem, baby." her dad said, his lips in her hair. "No problem at all."


	4. Chapter Four: Essays and Incidents

**Note:** Yo waddup.

I have no particular excuse in mind as to why this came quite late. Although I had, like, exams and shit so maybe that will suffice? Also-and I'm gonna be honest here-I didn't feel like writing. Writer's block, honey, is a goddamn bitch of an unsatisfactory situation.

By the way, in the following month, expect even less updates from me because, in my delusion, I had joined NaNoWriMo. (For the folks at home who don't know, it's National Novel Writing Month, where you have to write a 50K word novel within thirty days.) It's like, eleven days from now and quite frankly I'm terrified. I will try to write for this as much as I possibly can, but no promises.

Also, I would like to say that this story has accumulated, so far, 38 follows and 20 favorites, which is mind-blowing to me. Thank you all for liking this enough to do that, I love you all.

This is the longest chapter I've written so far, holy shit. I wrote this in like, three hours so any mistakes are mine. But I have to confess that I quite like this chapter, gives Adrien a bit more character, and he's pretty irked here. I could have done better with Marinette's section though. Also, they meet in this part! For the first time officially! Although it's only for like two minutes! Tag yourselves I'm Adrien trying to write an essay. xx

 **Disclaimer: _I do not own Miraculous Ladybug or any of the characters._**

Reviews are a heavily flustered Adrien!

* * *

 **Chapter Four: Essays and Incidents**

The sooner he could get this done, the better.

Adrien screwed up his face and looked at his laptop screen, at his blank word document. He looked at the fat history text sitting—open-faced and mocking—next to his maybe third or fourth cup of coffee. The essay was due in two days, they were given a week to get it done, and he hasn't written a word down.

Granted, he had an excuse; judging a music competition wasn't easy, in spite of what his history teacher might say. Maybe he'd even let Adrien slide. He had those free-passes, being the child of a world-renown musician after all. But that wasn't fair, was it? And Adrien, in spite of the lack of "raising" his father had contributed to the work force, was staunchly married to the idea of fair. (Which, he would also say, was pretty ironic coming from a child who'd been handed down everything—from his career to the silver laptop he'd been glaring at for the past hour—all his life.) (Whatever "raising" his father _hadn't_ managed, his mother definitely _had_. At least Adrien's got morals. He could give himself that.)

He sighed, ran a distressed hand through his even more distressed hair, and gulped down the last of his coffee, opting to order a new one before he passed out from boredom.

Adrien wasn't a writer. He wasn't one of those people, who could spring up words from what it seemed was an endless supply, who could make something out of nothing and make it look and sound beautiful. He didn't have that kind of energy. He was a reader. Adrien could sit still and do absolutely nothing but breathe and read for hours.

He was more of an interpreter. A translator. But literary genius, alas, he was not.

It could be said in the same way with music, he guessed. Give him any piece and he could learn it within a day. Give him a black music sheet and he would shrivel up like a berry in the sun. Endless was his capacity for remodeling, it seemed. He was great at that. Building was a whole new different territory, on the other hand.

He lamented the blank screen he faced. He'd been here for hours, it was a miracle the barista hadn't pointedly cleared his table away to make it available for other customers. But Adrien reckoned it was another Being the Progeny of Someone Famous thing. He let it be, just this once, because he wouldn't leave until he had at least a decent first draft in his files.

"The bloody French Revolution," Adrien whispered more to himself (ignoring the slightly worried look the woman a table away from him threw in his direction). "What the fuck do I know about the French Revolution?"

A helluva a lot, considering the circumstances. He was French, after all. Not only that, he'd been force fed this malarkey ever since he started school, public or not. No, the trouble wasn't what he knew, he decided, it was how he was going to put it down.

He typed out a brief introduction. It was shaky, but it would get the ball rolling, and he could always come back to it later. One thing he did know about writing, is that words became cheaper the more you stack them up. So he stacked, leaving behind a trail of weirdly punctuated sentences and bad similes and all the waxing-poetic bullshit he knew his teacher wanted to hear. He, of course, remembered to include the actual revolution, unlike the report he made comparing the Meiji and the Militaristic period of Japan, which lacked the pretty important part of, you know, the _war_.

When he had a passable first attempt, he smiled indulgently to himself and got up to the counter to order. He'd get tea instead. As a reward.

He was paying when the door of the coffeehouse burst open, and a smudge of a figure blew in. Adrien wasn't the only one who stared. All eyes were set on the person, who turned out to be a girl, now red-faced and sheepishly brushing down her windswept clothes. Adrien was about look away from her, to give her back some lost dignity, when he noticed her hair, and how it was styled. Black, short, sectioned off into two pigtails. The girl looked up. Her eyes were wide, embarrassed, and bright blue.

Marinette Dupein-Cheng fixed the strap of her bag on her shoulder, and determinedly not making eye contact with anyone, strode to an empty table. Adrien looked away hastily when she turned to go to the counter. _She was here_.

A soft cough made him stop fumbling awkwardly with his wallet. The barista was holding his cup aloft, to him, with an expectant expression.

"Sorry," he mumbled, passing the appropriate amount of change and going back to sit. He turned to go back to his table, bumping square into someone.

"Oops there," Adrien said, nearly letting go of his cup in his rush to catch the person by their shoulders to keep them from falling over. "Sorry. I wasn't looking where I was going," He was in the process of apologetically smiling when he saw who it was.

"Shoot, I'm really sorry," Marinette said, her hands on his forearms. "I'm such a klutz sometimes," She let go of him, and he of her.

"Are you okay?" he asked rather lamely, looking her over to check. She waved him off.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I fall over all the time; I was just lucky that this time someone was there to catch me."

He nearly blushed. Nearly.

"Thank you though, for the concern, and, you know, not dropping me."

"It was nothing,"

She beamed at him, and after politely separating, Adrien went back to his table.

 _Dammit all to hell, he wasn't going to be able to write now._

He took a nervous sip of tea, not minding the scalding temperature, and ran his hands over his face. His nerves were completely shot. He'd been thinking about this girl for weeks, trying with all of his might to get her out of his head, because frankly it was getting unproductive. But now she was here, less than ten feet away, and he's seen her eyes up close. And he's heard her talk. _Shit_.

He gulped down the tea faster than he'd ever thought possible, blinking away the tears that collected near the corners of his eyes due to the burning in his throat. He made sure he left five times the regular tip. He even stacked up his cups.

Packing away his laptop, he quickly rushed out of the café, throwing a nod and a smile at Marinette before he went. He didn't want to be rude, especially to her. She smiled back.

The wind blew at his coat but he didn't notice it, replaying that one moment back.

* * *

Marinette wasn't having a good day.

She had been late to class, had grabbed the wrong coat this morning on her way out and now was forced to deal with a uselessly thin one to fend off the cold, and she'd been denied an accompanist for about the fifteenth time.

When lunch rolled around, she'd been the first to leave the classroom, getting out of campus as soon as she could. She needed some time to breathe, that was all she asked for. The weather was having a mind of its own, it seemed. This week there'd been sun and then rain and then gale-force winds and then more rain. Although Marinette admittedly liked the weather, her clothes suffered for it.

Sighing, she pulled down on her hat as the wind made another attempt to take it hostage, boots squelching wetly along the rain-soaked sidewalk. Her cheeks felt almost numb.

She liked taking walks like this, to help her think. She usually didn't have much time to do so, and with great reason. Marinette can get a bit dangerous when left alone for too long with her thoughts. That's when her big fat worries and insecurities would usually crop up and try to take her down with them. Walking, on the other hand, captured enough of her attention to help stave off the overthinking while leaving her with ample amounts of headspace to reflect. Occasionally, she would think about bigger things. A clear head was a good space to do that kind of stuff. Today, it was a bit on the smaller side.

Alya had texted her this morning, while she was still in class, one of the few bright spots her day has had.

 _Saw an ex of yours today. Only telling you because I burned him verbally. U r welcome, sister. Xx_

She knew which ex, because of all her exes, this one was the worst. She didn't know why she kept thinking about it. She hadn't seen him in years, and would continue to not see him in the years to come, if Alya had anything to do about it.

Marinette wandered a bit more before rounding a corner into a street she knew well, finding what she wanted. The bookstore was a beacon in the dreary grey palate of the city, at least in her eyes. She didn't haunt it as frequently as she used to, now that she was busier.

She reasoned that she wasn't hungry enough to want lunch anyway, that she could go without some food for a while if it meant the peace and quiet a half-empty bookshop provided.

When she entered, Betty, the daughter of the owners, threw her a warm smile. She beamed back.

"We've been wondering where you went, Mari." Betty said, and Marinette went up to the register to give her a hug.

"I've been around. Busy." she said, pulling away and tugging her hat off.

"That's a terrible excuse,"

She laughed. "It's the only one I have,"

Within ten minutes, she was reclined in one of the easy chairs and reading. Sylvia Plath, it seemed, was the author of choice these past few weeks; Marinette had been poring over her whole body of work, poetry and prose. Words had a way of getting to her, in a way that was separate and wholly different from how music affected her. Music got under her skin, made her rise up and want to act. They summoned ghosts from her bones and made them corporeal. Words eased her, got her sedated into happiness.

She read and re-read every word until the growling in her stomach got too difficult to ignore. She bought the book, along with a few more, and left. There was a coffee shop nearby that she knew of. She'd only been there once or twice, but from what she could remember, the food wasn't bad.

The wind had picked up when she'd last been outside, and now it was strong enough to push her down the road. Marinette, being infuriatingly short, was pushed along easily like some cheap ragdoll. Quite frankly it was insulting.

She reached the café doors, now running, and in her momentum, could not stop. She burst spastically through the doors, and much to her embarrassment, caught the attention of everyone inside.

Fucking hell, why did she have to be so awkward?

She flamed up so quick she must've melted. She wanted to, to melt down into nothingness on the floor and be regressed into a puddle incapable of such silly human emotions like shame and humiliation. To her disappointment, she'd remained completely solid and completely capable of such silly human emotions like shame and humiliation. She felt them right now, as she dusted off invisible dirt from her clothes to try and divert the attention from her.

Once she couldn't pull off patting herself down any longer, she mustered up whatever was left of her self-esteem and walked to an empty table, all false confidence. She set her bags down and went off to order.

Marinette was famous for her two left feet and complete lack of hand-to-eye coordination, so her luck would have it that she would shove into someone on the way to something as mundane as ordering a meal. Of course.

She quickly grabbed hold of the person's forearms, and she felt hands go to her shoulders, and after a moment she was steady enough to stand on her two feet.

"Oops there," Marinette had been so busy making sure she wouldn't fall that she forgot that there was another person involved in this whole mess. She looked up. "Sorry. I wasn't looking where I was going," The one who had caught her was male, with the greenest eyes she'd ever seen and a smile that could kill, and he also happened to be _Adrien Agreste_.

She composed herself as quickly as possible. _No fucking up in front of your idol's son, now._ "Shoot, I'm really sorry." she said, slowly letting go of her grip on him. He must be so creeped out. Fuck. "I'm such a klutz sometimes," There was a short delay before he let go of her.

"Are you okay?" Adrien Agreste's eyes went over her for a moment, as if to check on her. _Adrien Agreste was showing concern over her. Fuck, what is this?_

"Yeah, I'm fine. I fall over all the time; I was just lucky that this time someone was there to catch me." _Shit._ Why'd she have to go on and say that?

"Thank you though, for the concern, and, you know, not dropping me." She meant it, although she could have said it less awkwardly, if she was being honest.

"It was nothing," he said, and he seemed genuine.

She couldn't help but smile at him. They exchanged a few more words before he went back to his table and she went to order. The barista eyed her with a weird look that she in turn ignored as she received her eggs benedict and toast. Carefully, she carried the tray to her table, mind still slightly fried from what had happened. She had just met _Adrien Agreste_ , and not only was he hot, he was also really nice.

She was tucking into her meal when he started packing his things away, hastily throwing on his coat and walking out into the street. But before he left, he gave her a smile, small but terrifyingly pretty. She smiled back, nearly waving but catching herself.

He left with a flurry of wind, and Marinette found herself blushing once more, a stupid, stupid smile on her face.


	5. Chapter Five: Dates and Deliverance

**Note:** *waves nervously Hello.

I've been gone quite a while now have I? Heh.

Honestly forgive me for my seeming incoherence it is 2:51 in the morning and my head is not screwed on quite correctly.

Happy New Year's, by the way. It's already 2017 where I am, but anyway.

This chapter is real short, which is frustrating as heck but I needed it to get the ball rolling. Plot occurs quite heavily in the next chapter. Be excited. Or not, depends on you. Also, I enjoyed writing a loved-up Alya. I feel like, at first especially, Alya would be one of those who would just act moonstruck when in the formative months of a relationship. Just my headcanon though, and I understand if people find it OOC. But meh. Too tired currently to care.

I'll be off now.

 **Disclaimer: _I do not own Miraculous Ladybug or any of the characters._**

Reviews are kicking Donald Trump in the groin!

* * *

 **Chapter Five: Dates and Deliverance**

The next stage of the competition was to commence in two months. To Marinette, it felt like two weeks. She already had plans on how she would go about the performance, already picked a song. But nothing stank more than a pile of unmanageable plans. She would wake up and see the sheet music she'd chosen and feel dead and blank, unable to play it and yet unwilling to put it away.

Alya had been getting on her case about it, although she mostly complained about how it made a mess in her room, but Marinette was fortunate (or unfortunate, really, depending on your point of view) to know that as brusque and insensitive Alya seemed to act on the surface, it was only skin-deep. She was worried, but Marinette didn't have the energy to talk about it, least of all with Alya.

And it wasn't just Alya who was pestering her; her parents were non-stop in their own digging, although they were much more subtle, thankfully.

But for all the gentle (and in Alya's case, not so gentle) encouragement, Marinette was starting to lose hope.

"Why can't Nath come back though?" Alya asked, scrolling through her phone as Marinette looked over sheet music. "Whatever gig he's doing, I'm pretty sure it won't last two months."

"It's a program, it goes on for five." Marinette said flatly. Quite frankly, as long as it's been since it had happened, it still stung. "Art classes and exhibitions in museums and whatnot. He only bothered to tell me when he was effectively out of my hair." She couldn't help but be bitter. Nathanael was a sweetheart, but he was only human. Humans made mistakes. But _Marinette_ was only human as well. Humans only had so much patience.

"Hm." Alya looked at Marinette shuffling morosely through her papers, looked at her phone again. She was thinking, Marinette knew.

The clock chiming noon was what broke them out of their respective trances. Alya took one glance at it and sprang out of Marinette's bed as if it had stung her. She then began throwing her things randomly into her bag.

"Shit," she muttered, grabbing at a notebook and trying to cram it into whatever corner of her bag it would accommodate itself.

"Is your date _that_ early?" Marinette asked dryly. Alya, for all her fodder about loving single life, was going on a date after finding a perfect match on a dating app. Not that Marinette had anything wrong with her best friend going on dates that were decided via an algorithm, but her support was rather stunted to a degree that suggested irony and sarcasm than anything else.

"We agreed at four. You know me, it takes me hours to get ready."

"All right," She watched Alya struggle with the doorknob, with her hands full of other things, before she got up to help. A grateful thank-you and goodbye later, and Alya was out.

Effectively alone, Marinette found herself at a loss of what she could do. Not that she was doing much of anything in the first place, she reminded herself, but Alya's presence diluted that. And now, with Alya gone getting dolled up for her date, the boredom she already knew resided within her burst forth with nothing to stop it.

She didn't want to play. Couldn't quite manage to. It felt like an insult sometimes, looking at her violin and at her prepared sheet music and knowing what she knew. She had to keep sharp, but that was what scales were for. She sat down at her desk to look at some random videos on YouTube, only for a Gabriel Agreste ad to pop up on the video she had chosen and her mood further plummeted. Forcing herself not to skip, she took a deep breath and prepared for the spite.

It wasn't Gabriel on the ad, however. It was Adrien.

Marinette bit on the inside of her cheek to somehow ebb the flush she knew was on her face.

(She knew it didn't work.)

He was as blonde and as beautiful as she remembered, and Marinette thought with a jolt that the camera did his face no justice. And with a bigger jolt, she remembered that she had _seen it up close._

God it took a herculean effort to not tell Alya about it. For her own reasons, and to be completely honest Marinette didn't know those reasons herself, she wanted to keep the encounter close to her chest for a while before she spilled. It wouldn't take long now, knowing her, knowing _Alya_. But for now, just for now, she'll let it stay put in her head.

The ad played out, and Marinette stared dumbly at the black screen and the infuriating little dots that circled around each other as the actual video buffered.

She thought of several things in one instant:

How was he (Adrien) now? She couldn't help herself. (Even if Alya was the one pursuing journalism, Marinette was a tad nosy too.)

How was Alya getting along? She really should call her, she'd been a bit shit. She ought to show some morale of some sort. Maybe she should FaceTime her and offer advice on nerves and whatever.

Howhow _how_ was she ever going to find an accompanist? The next two months were _integral_ , and if Marinette won't be able to find anyone, she might as well toss in the towel.

The video was still loading. Maybe she'd call Alya instead. Talk her through. Alya didn't look it but she got nervous.

Marinette made a grab for her phone and clicked on the FaceTime app.

The video crashed. Marinette paid it no heed.

* * *

"So how _was_ he?" Marinette asked, sitting with her legs crossed underneath her, watching as Alya removed the last of her makeup. The girl was practically vibrating with happiness. Marinette was tempted to look away. Alya was _glowing_.

" _God_ , Mari. He was. He was _perfect_. Well, that's a bit of a stretch, but he's the _closest thing to it_."

Marinette raised an eyebrow, but grinned at the look of rapturous wonder that took over her friend's face. Skepticism aside, she was happy for Alya.

"I'm glad you found him then, Al." she said genuinely.

Alya smiled bashfully, looked down at the cotton round soaked with makeup remover in her hand. "I am too, Mari."

Marinette began to lie down, spreading her arms and legs out. There was silence for a few moments as Alya started her rigorous night routine.

"We got to talking about friends, actually." Alya said, breaking the spell. Marinette didn't sit up, but she felt her eyebrows bunch together.

"What about friends?"

"Told him I got a musician friend. Told him you played violin. And that you were good."

"And?" Marinette had sat up now. She fixed Alya with an expectant stare that she met through the mirror.

Abruptly, Alya looked away. "He told me his best friend plays piano."


End file.
